


Kryptonite

by Dien



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shmoopy, silly Finch & Reese H/C. Could be slashy if you squinted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kryptonite

“You are bleeding on my floor, Mr. Reese.”  
  
Reese couldn't tell if the wide-eyed look Finch was giving him was for his injury or for his nerve in leaking liquid of any sort in Finch's sacred library space. He grunted and limped two more steps for the nearest chair, then sank down into it.  
  
Finch was on his own feet, hovering, brows drawn in what was probably his expression of concern. “Where are you hurt? What happened?”  
  
“Ran through a junkyard chasing Murray,” Reese answered tersely, reaching down to pull off his shoe. “Stepped on a nail.”  
  
The interior sole of the shoe was sticky with red, which had oozed out through the nail's puncture hole and left, yes, a small trail of drops along the library's floor.   
  
“It's not that bad,” Reese said, and Finch did that thing with his brows that Reese had decoded a while ago would have been a vociferous 'bullshit!' from a normal human being.   
  
“I'll get the first aid kit,” Finch said, and hobbled off to do so.   
  
Reese let him go. He honestly had no desire to put weight on his foot right now-- he had never noticed how many steps the library had before today, why did Finch want a base that must be a pain in the ass for him to walk around?-- and if Finch wanted to fetch it that was fine with him. He peeled his bloody sock off with a grimace and held it over the tiny hole in the base of his foot.   
  
Could be worse. It had been a short nail, almost a tack really. He scowled all the same. For such a relatively minor wound, it would severely limit his ability to do legwork around town, let alone if he had to get into a fight. At least Murray was caught-- maybe it would heal a little before their next number.  
  
Finch was back-- grabbed the other chair and wheeled it over, then dropped down into it with a little huff. “Give me your foot, Mr. Reese.”  
  
Reese arched a brow, and held out a hand for the kit. “I can do it myself.”  
  
“I am positive that you _can_. With contortions. Don't be stubborn, Mr. Reese.”  
  
He eyed Finch a moment, lips twitching, then lifted his foot and pulled away the sock. “Careful. I might bleed on your Armani.”  
  
“It wouldn't be the first time,” Finch said shortly, and slid his fingers around Reese's ankle to maneuver his foot within range.   
  
Reese leaned back against the chair, eyes half-shut, and just... watched. It was not an entirely novel experience, having someone else patch him up after a scrape. But it had been a while, before Finch. Back to Stanton.   
  
Having Finch bandage his wounds was a very different experience from Stanton doing it.  
  
Stanton's face had always been impassive, her movements brusque, professional. Bedside manner wasn't a priority when you were two agents deep in enemy territory, eating and sleeping and crapping together, relying on each other until you were two halves of one taut, tired whole.   
  
Finch's face moved as he worked, little unconscious expressions over a face so often carefully devoid of them. Winces, furrowed brows, little grimaces... Reese liked studying it at moments like this, when Finch was focused on other things and didn't see him observing him. Finch's hands were careful. Solicitous, even. When Reese flinched reflexively at the peroxide, Finch flinched too, and Finch did not often 'flinch' at many things. But he did when it was clear Reese was hurting.  
  
That part was novel. That part, John Reese didn't know if he'd ever get used to.  
  
“Hold still,” Finch said in a low murmur, and Reese felt the antibiotic cream smeared on to the bottom of his foot. He jerked again, although not in pain, and snorted air out through his nose.  
  
“Sorry,” Finch said, and Reese fought to hold himself still as Finch's fingers moved around some more.   
  
“Doesn't hurt,” he clarified with a clearing of his throat. “Tickles.”  
  
Finch stopped what he was doing and looked up slowly at him. “I'm sorry?”  
  
“It tickles. Sole of my foot. It's ticklish. You know, biological involuntary reaction?”  
  
“I _know_ what _tickling_ is, Mr. Reese. I just...” Finch shook his head, picked up the roll of gauze, and started deftly winding it around Reese's bare foot.  
  
“Just what?” Reese countered with a brow arch.  
  
“....assumed you were beyond such mortal weaknesses, I suppose.” Finch shrugged one shoulder in time with the snip of scissors cutting the gauze. He rummaged one-handed for the tape, then flicked a wry glance up at his operative.  
  
“It wasn't in your file, let's say.”  
  
Reese grinned a bit in answer. “And what about you, Finch? You ticklish?”  
  
Finch gave a prim sniff and taped the gauze in place. “Does it never grow old, trying to ferret out my personal information, Mr. Reese?”  
  
“Just trying to protect myself now that you know my kryptonite.”  
  
Finch patted the top of his bandaged foot absently, as if it were a dog's head, and then pushed himself upright from the chair. He limped away to put the kit back where they kept it, and Reese heard his voice over his shoulder saying, “Well, then, let me make it very clear that surprise attempts to discover if, or indeed, _where_ I might be ticklish are not something an employee ought to attempt upon his employer. And will result in... I don't know, pay cuts, at the very least.”  
  
Reese smirked. He waited until Finch was out of earshot down the hall. And then he told the silent library, “I think I can live with that.”


End file.
